


in the darkest night (i'll search through the crowd)

by BelieveMePlease



Series: prompts [3]
Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Character Study, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:41:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26525386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelieveMePlease/pseuds/BelieveMePlease
Summary: Owen can’t tell what the nagging feeling is as he watches George sidestep his way down to the reaches of the penalty touch. Perhaps it’s just a jealousy that he’s not out there training himself, or a jealousy of the neat, beautiful rugby George portrays. Perhaps he can ignore that he knows it’s so much more than that.
Relationships: Owen Farrell/George Ford
Series: prompts [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1870921
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	in the darkest night (i'll search through the crowd)

In the heat, most movements are sluggish. The panting of drained and tired teammates sounds well above the clapping collisions of their sweaty bodies, the thud of their boots on sun-hardened ground. From the shade – the still searing shade – Owen watches, dripping with an unearned perspiration, itching to be proving his position.

Still, in his absence, another shines. Owen’s eye catches, on the lithe slide of his body as it dummies, twists to pass after the most perfectly timed delay. His shout is booming, nothing of the timidity he once wore – just the concise sound of leadership. As much as Owen pains to be out there himself, as much as he feels robbed of rights by the precautions of injury, the familiarity of the voice leaves him humbled. If he trusts anyone to lead his team as he would, even within the safe structure of training – it’s George.

The sound of the Lancastrian voice dies away as the ball finds his hands once more. Owen surveys the field, checks every option – he should kick for territory. No soon has he thought it that the ball leaves George’s fingers, dropped elegantly to bounce at the toe of his boot, and it sails marvellously cross field.

Owen feels his jaw clench, legs setting in tandem with George’s as though he could chase the kick himself. Instead he can only watch the set in George’s thigh, the taut outline of muscle glistening in a sheen under the sun, as he descents the line of his own kick. The pound of his feet on the ground, the propulsion of his weight behind him carries him the distance. Speed is something that George is hardly recognised for. Moments like these never fail to leave Owen questioning why.

He doesn’t quite meet the ball himself, beaten with only a couple of metres remaining by Elliot, bibbed as the opposing fall back. Owen’s muscles relax slightly, as though to slow the pace he isn’t running himself, opportunity lost as the ball falls into enemy hand. But George still goes, line and direction set, eyes falling as though locking to a new target. It’s Owen’s heart clenching in his chest this time, his eyes squeezing into the squint of a wince as George fails to falter for a second, body dipping low, arms extending in front of himself.

A low whistle of praise rings out amidst the other onlookers as George swings Elliot to the ground, ball going with him with no other options left. Owen feels him chest unclench as George rolls simply away, hopping neatly to his feet as he scampers back into position, an almighty tackle no skin off his teeth.

The whistle sounds a second later, but Owen hadn’t seen the ensuing offence within the ruck, his eyes too busy tracking George’s figure across the field. He watches as George’s neck tips back in frustration, watches as his mouth forms berating commands to the team he so easily leads.

The sun gleams off the sheen of sweat cooling against his skin, frames the scowl adorned on his face. Owen can’t feel the heat beating against himself, has no attention for the drips at the back of his neck, for now it has a far better focus.

Owen can’t tell what the nagging feeling is as he watches George sidestep his way down to the reaches of the penalty touch. Perhaps it’s just a jealousy that he’s not out there training himself, or a jealousy of the neat, beautiful rugby George portrays. Perhaps he can ignore that he knows it’s so much more than that.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt:
> 
> _Do you think you could do a short from Owens POV please? Maybe him watching Georgie train, or playing cards in the lounge? Like a character study but through Owens eyes?_
> 
> This was sent to me on my [tumblr](https://believeemeplease.tumblr.com/), feel free to come on over and prompt me anything you would like to see written. I am sometimes very slow, but I do eventually get through them.


End file.
